


Boring

by wilddragonflying



Series: Post Reichenbach [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Sorta kinda maybe Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sits down to type a letter to Sherlock, and then things go a little bit screwy from there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boring

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. I seem to be obsessed with the Sherlock/John reunion scene. Then again, who in the Sherlock fandom isn't right now?

John sat at the table, staring blankly at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. After a few moments, he began to type.

 

_Sherlock._

_I wanted to write something today, to update my blog, maybe try to move on, and then I opened the fridge and saw a hunk of beef I bought the other day. I thought for a second it was another one of your bloody heads, but then I remembered that you weren't here. I had to sit down, after that. I couldn't handle it. I thought I'd been doing so well, getting over you, but I guess I was just fooling myself. Fooling myself into thinking I was fine, that I could get past your death, that I could actually, maybe, try to be normal now.  
_

_What a load of rubbish.  
_

_I don't want to be normal, Sherlock. Normal, I've found, is boring now. Now that I've solved crimes and chased criminals and almost died with and for the world's only consulting detective. I don't want normal, I don't want some little house with a wife and two kids, going to work every day. I don't want that.  
_

_I just want you.  
_

_  
_John couldn't type anymore; he couldn't feel his fingers, couldn't see the screen. Shoving the laptop back, John laid his head on his arms on the table, and wept. Seemed like that's what he was doing a lot of lately. Weeping, crying. Mourning. Mourning the loss of the best friend that he had ever had, mourning the fact that he would never hear, "Come on, John, we're losing him!" again, never yell at Sherlock for leaving his ruddy experiments all over the flat, never get to hear Sherlock play the violin, make deductions, and banter with Mrs. Hudson. He'd never talk to Sherlock again, never be truly challenged again.

 

His life truly had become boring.

 

Boring was dangerous.

 

Then again, John was an ex-army doctor, and had run London's rooftops and underground with Sherlock Holmes himself. Since when couldn't John handle a little dangerous?

 

There was a crash at the door, and John jumped to his feet, grabbing his gun and automatically sprinting to the one blind spot from the front door in the whole flat. His heart wasn't pounding, adrenaline wasn't pumping, he was running on instinct, he felt _alive._

 

"Damn it all, Mycroft! I don't bloody care what you and Lestrade say, _I am going to see John!_ "

 

John froze, his finger on the trigger. That voice... He knew it. And he knew the other two, as well.

 

"Sherlock Holmes! You know what I have told you--"

 

"Bugger what you've told me! I've waited three years, Mycroft! That last year wasn't even necessary! I am done hiding from John!"

 

"Sherlock, be reasonable--"

 

"I _am_ being reasonable! John is one of my only friend, you insufferable baboon, Lestrade! You yourself have told me how he acted at the funeral, ever since I jumped, for crying out loud! _Now let me in to my own damned flat!_ "

 

John stepped forward, still holding his gun. He paused at the sight of Sherlock being physically held back by Lestrade, and Mycroft standing in front of Sherlock, his characteristic umbrella pointed at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock, who had been snarling at Mycroft with something akin to the look of a crazed animal in his eyes, caught sight of John and froze.

 

"What the hell is going on here?" John demanded, not stepping forward and not lowering his gun. Sherlock was...?

 

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said calmly, not turning around. "This is not how I would have had this meeting go--"

 

"Well that's not for you to decide now, is it, brother--" Sherlock started in a snarl, but John cut him off.

 

"Shut it, Sherlock!" he snapped. "Mycroft, if that truly is your brother standing in front of you, kindly lower your umbrella and let him in. The last I checked, this flat belonged to him and me, _not_ you." John stood stock still, waiting for Mycroft to comply. After a few moments, Mycroft did, and nodded to Lestrade, who reluctantly released Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock straightened, and stepped towards John, a small, uncertain smile on his lips. "John,--"

 

 _Pow!_ John's fist connected with his nose, and he watched Sherlock fall back on his arse, a not-so-stunned look on his face. "I thought that would happen," Sherlock said, a trace of petulance in his tone.

 

"Bloody arse," John said, moving to help him up, and then pulling the detective into a hug.

 

"Welcome home."


End file.
